The Melancholy Burden of Sanity
by X Killing Loneliness X
Summary: A dark story of Christine’s life after Erik and a look into the black space of guilt driven to madness. A really bad summary I know. EC, don't worry. Rated T for now, more for violence though.
1. Prologue

The Melancholy Burden of Sanity

A/N

This is my first ever fic, but I've read so many of them by so many talented writers I just had to make an attempt. This is a really dark story; I have always thought that if Christine and Erik were not reunited that she would have gone mad from guilt and unrequited love. This is the premise of my story.

Ok, you're already reading, so please review.

Without further ado...

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Prologue

We being well adjusted people feel it is unnatural to be more comfortable in the darkness than in the light. Light is harsh, light shows all aspects of things, sometimes things we would rather not see. But light is uncaring and does not distinguish being good and evil in its illuminations. Darkness softens, and cloaks us in our sins. While the light forces us to look at ourselves for what we really are, the darkness shields us from what we do not want to see. Have you ever noticed how you can see the things you look for in the darkness, if they are things you do not want to see, you blame the darkness for them being there. But if you did not want to see it or did not seek it out, you could pass right by undisturbed.

We as a civilization have the need to know all the facts, therefore we cannot stand the dark, it represents things that we do not know. Someone who did care to see life for how it was would revel in the dark and its attributes.

Some have called madness black, the black disease. Black is the color of the night. Madness and darkness are very closely linked. It is closer than some might think. People seek it out for the same reason as darkness, and it is as addicting, to simply not see what is in front of you. But madness is much more dangerous, because when you have ventured so far into madness that you cannot see any light, the sun never rises as it does with the night.


	2. Dies Irae

Dies Irae

Paris, France 1890

The sunlight filtered through the dust curtains of the shabby room. Small bugs flew continuously in and out of the gaping whole covered with material that had dreams of being a window. A pile of empty liquor bottles adorned the dresser along with a few articles of once fine clothing. Dirt was layered on everything the light could touch. Various footprints were visible on the floor through the grime, and led toward a dilapidated bed in the center of the room.

The room was part of a boarding house in the worst part of town. In the narrow streets outside drunks were littered from last nights adventures and at least a few bodies of women dead or close to it from the same drunken adventures. These were a dangerous sort of people; they had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Now that the sun was fully risen shop keepers opened they doors and shooed away the people lying in from of their doors. Another day had begun in Paris, the city of love.

Back in the room overlooking this mess, the owner of the building was pounding on the door demanding overdue rent money and hollering threats if the money wasn't paid soon. In the rusty bed a man stirred, shaking the sleep from him he ascertained that the sun had risen and there was someone at his door. What had happened to him the night before or how he had successfully gotten back to his room last night was anybody's guess.

After a minute or so, he concluded that he was awake and sober enough to walk. Hestood up, grabbed a stained black cloak and walked to the door. He stopped before opening it long enough to swath the cloak around himself completely covering his face. He then cracked the door open just enough to see who was out there, not that he didn't already know by the voice bellowing out there.

"Hey, you got rent due a week ago, and I still don't got it. I need 20 francs from you."

With a swish the black specter turned, and with a quick search found 15 francs to placate the piggish man in his doorway. He shoved the money into the filthy mans hand and made to close the door. But a fat hand shot out to stop the action.

"Hey, this ain't enough, I'm gonna kick you out if you don't…"

The sentence was cut short by a thin piece of catgut artfully twisted around his neck. The last sound the man ever heard was the deadly whistle of that lasso wising through the air.

With a sigh Erik realized that he would now have to drag the enormous man inside, set up a plausible looking scene for alcohol poisoning. This done he gather up his few belongings and stepped out into the street, horrified to find so many people in and no shadows in to hide in. He swore quietly under his breath, pulled his cloak farther over his face and hurried down the street.

It had been a long nine years since….well since he had left the opera house. At first he had tried to travel and get away from Paris, he had traveled all over the world, but he always felt a pull to return to this God forsaken city. By the time had returned to it, he had wasted most of the money he had amassed during his time at the opera house. It had been a hard transition going from the best of everything to well where he was now. He did have more money then than he had now, but none of the decent places would take him now. It had been a interesting discovery he had made on his travels: if you have enough money people won't shun you. He certainly hadn't made any friends, but he had no reason to hide any longer. Except his own fear.

Then things had gotten really bad, once he didn't have enough money to live well, he stopped caring altogether. He stopped his love of opium and started to drink cheap liquor, it didn't matter as long as it had the same affect. He began drowning his sorrows, making them worse, dwelling on them, with was the most painful of all. Then he started killing again, he had stopped for a while, but the more desperate he got, the more he killed.

Oh, he begged for death to take him, he had said long ago that he would never commit suicide, a promise he was now loath to keep. He looked like he had been drug back from the gates of hell itself.

As he walked now, he contemplated his interesting habit of only killing men.

He continued on his way until he stepped on an old newspaper. For a moment he thought he had seen a picture of someone, but resolved to keep walking. He tried but he could not let it go, he turned back to take a closer look. It was her. His heart stopped instantly, for so long he had tried to push her completely out of his mind, to never think of her again, to not love her anymore, to dwell of the anger so much that he didn't feel the pain.

Despite it all he could not help noticing how beautiful she looked, but yet how different. She was thinner, and this sadness was cast over her features. Anger rose up in him, what right she have to be sad with her perfect husband and perfect life, when he was left with _this. _Then he read the headline:

**Viscountess De Changy Dead**

_The Viscountess Christine De Changy died last evening in the Château de Changy. She is survived by her husband the Viscount. Her funeral service will be held in one week from today. _

He couldn't breath; his breath just stopped his heart stopped by felt as if the entire world stopped spinning. Christine dead? How could that be? He would have felt it, but the papers said right here. How long, the newspaper was old. It was dated April 3, 1893. What was the date today, how long had she been dead and he didn't know it. I wasn't fair, it wasn't right. The hot tears were starting to sting his eyes as he glanced around anxiously looking for some sort of clue as to the date.

His breathing was ragged and he knew that soon he would not be able to walk anymore. He choked back sobs as he now ran for somewhere out of sight. He found a shady bar that had rooms for rent upstairs. He quickly slammed the 15 francs from earlier on the counter and demanded a room. Key and newspaper in hand he blindly made his way up the stairs opened the door and collapsed on the floor.

A giant painful sob ripped it way through his body and out of lips in the form of a name.

"Christine! Why!"

The sobs came so quickly and so furiously that he was hard pressed to breath. His energy spent his body and mind gave out and he knew no more.

Three days later.

He sat in his new room thinking he had discerned that the day was May 10; she had been dead for over a month. He had thought that he was dead before, it had been nothing compared to this. He had been lost without her, but now he was dead without her.

He began to sing, something he had not done for nine years. The Dies Irae, the opening to the requiem mass he had written long ago.

_Its your choice Christine, the wedding mass or the requiem mass. _

"Dies irae, dies irae, dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla……."

He murmured a soft prayer for her, something he could never do for himself.

"Ave Maria, mother of god, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."


	3. Atratus Rosa

Atratus Rosa

The moonlight filtered through the trees of the cemetery casting an eerie light in the gravestones. Erik could hear his steps as if they were louder than the city market place at noon, not that he would know how loud that would be anyway. His breath even sounded loud in his ears, and his heartbeat, well that had stopped altogether since _that moment_.

It was very dark, but that didn't deter Erik, his eyesight was extraordinary from having lived in the dark for so long. He easily found his way to her grave. Just that one thought, _her _grave. He had never thought it could be possible. He still didn't want to believe it was really true, not until he could touch her grave, prostrate himself on it and beg to God to exchange their places.

Then, there it was, right in front of him. He stared at it remembering a time when she had knelt in front of her father's grave and he had tried to convince her that he was in fact her father. Now that seemed so wrong, yet he was glad that he had at least tried every way possible to have her in his life. At the time he never wanted to see her again when he realized she would be Raoul's. He berated himself for that now. He would happily sit in the rain every day just to catch a glimpse of her passing by.

NO NO! He would not let himself be weak, that's what had done him in before; his weakness and self absorbed anger had driven her away. He knew that now. He knew in his mind why she looked so terrible in the picture he had seen. He knew in his heart what he had done to her, he had seen it.

When he had let her leave with Raoul he really had mean the best for her. He had wanted nothing but happiness. He could truly shed a tear for her short-lived happiness. He at least hoped that it had been happiness, even if it was without him. He was not as heartless as she had accused him of that night. Her words still stayed with him even now.

_It's in your soul, that the true distortion lies._ _Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?_

She had never spoken truer words. His tears fell onto the single rose in his hand. He laid it before her, but his hand would not move from the spot where he had touched her grave. It felt so empty, there was no way that her soul was that empty when they laid her in the ground. It simply could not be. _What if it was_? His mind taunted what if she was empty, what if she lost her soul like you had lost yours. _But I got mine back! With her_ he spoke into the darkness argued with the conflicting thoughts.

* * *

No one would listen

No one but her

Heard as the outcast hears

Shamed into solitude

Shunned by the multitude

I learned to listen

In the dark my heart heard music

I longed to teach the world

Rise up and reach the world

No one would listen

I alone could hear the music

Then at last a voice in the gloom

Seemed to cry "I hear you"

"I hear you fears

Your torment and your tears"

She saw my loneliness

Shared in my emptiness

No one would listen

No one but her

Heard as the outcast hears

No one would listen

No one but her

Heard as the outcast hears

* * *

The tears slipped down his face as he guessed and second guessed at what her fate really was. If he had only known what had truly become of her since…..well since the last time he had seen her.

* * *

A/N I know this chapter is really short, but the next one is better, I promise. Enter Christine Dun dun DUNNNNN! 


	4. Bilis Rosa

OK, I really had to apply myself to stop bouncing and re-reading my reviews and actual write the next chapter. .:Giggles:. OMG I actually have reviews.

**Phantress, **I solemnly that I am up to no good. (With the storyline I mean) ;). I can be as cruel as I want…ha ha ha ha…….wait for it……………HA. Thank you bundles of actually reviewing, you made me squee! You too **Phurity, **don't feel left out.

Alright enough happy chit chat, off to Lompa Land! Wait that wasn't right………Oh I got it. OFF TO CHAPTER THREE! Or would it really be chapter two cause the prologue doesn't count……….

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Bilis Rosa

Midnight, May 11, 1893

Raoul de Changy sat in _her_ bedroom surveying the wonderful place he had made for Christine. Everything was filled with light and happiness. He had never wanted her o have to be in shadow again. The walls were white and the sunlight streamed in the many windows illuminating every corner of the room by day, and at night there were enough lamps to make one believe they were surrounded by the flames of hell. The bed was a accumulation of pink silk, mauve satin and white lace. There was no black anywhere in the room. No black and no red. Raoul sat on the fluffy bed fingering the mauve satin with distaste; he had always disliked the bastard child of pink and grey. But he would have done anything for Christine. _He had done everything for her, and none of it had mattered._ He shook the painful thought from his head.

Rising he went to the wall to the wall window situated right at head level. The window didn't go outside, but led into the other room.

"I loved him, and I killed him. The music…and the people...and the torches…..and red….it follows you….it's everywhere. And the people and the white ….no the white, it burns….and the colors and the people……no they get you…they're everywhere….he can always hear you…..always. NOOOOOO, the music...oh the music…..it always in your…its always in your head….it burns…oh it burns…the music and the songs. I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT. I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT. I don't wanna hear it. I don't wanna hear…………………….."

Raoul sighed as he watched the shrieks slowly stop as the doctors once again injected Christine with a powerful sedative. If they let her get much past this point she would start to bash her head against the wall to stop the music.

HE wasn't a monster, like his subconscious kept telling him. He was not. He had done everything he could. _He had done everything she wanted_! **And she still didn't love him. **

He started humming, he didn't know why, but it seemed ironically appropriate while thinking of Christine. It was an old song, that hios mother used to sing to him at night, she had been so Irish with her red curly locks. She had kept that hidden so well form the rest of the world, but at night singing him to sleep she was Irish through and through, The same when she taught him to dance like an Irishman, when he had been a little boy stuck inside the house all day long because of rain. Now he hummed it softly, wishing he could emulate her soft lilting accent. He closed his eyes and he could smell it, heather. She had always smelled of the heather from her native land, he never knew how, because it didn't grow where they were, but somehow she always smelled of heather. The words seemed so ironic to him now. When he was a boy, he had never really understood what they meant, but he had loved to listen to her.

_His eyes they cloud_

_And his last breath spoke_

_He had seen all to be seen_

_A life once full_

_Now an empty vase_

_With the blossoms on his early grave_

_Walk away me boys_

_Walk away me boys_

_And by morning we'll be free_

_Wipe the golden tear _

_From your mother dear_

_And raise what's left of the flag for me_

_Then the rosary beads_

_Count them one, two, three_

_Fell apart as they hit the floor_

_IN a garb of black_

_We must pay respect_

_To the color we're born to mourn_

_Walk away me boys_

_Walk away me boys_

_And by morning we'll be free_

_Wipe the golden tear _

_From your mother dear_

_And raise what's left of the flag for me_

One tear slipped down his face for his poor wife. Another for his child. Another for himself.

He stopped himself. The tears turned dry and salty on his cheeks. It was now two, and he was still awake, oh the winter had been. He remembered the last party they had gone to together, crowds of people were standing, staring at them, judging them for not being perfect. _Breathe_, he told himself, just breathe. He remembered her twenty-first birthday. He had wanted to hold her and love her. But she had pushed him away; it was the first item that had happened, the first of many. _Breathe_ he repeated in his mind.

He continued to stand with his back to the wall, feeling so alone and so broken. He couldn't even say her name. The emotions ran through him like wildfire, anger, sadness, pity, jealousy.

He could her her now, talking in her sleep, singing in her sleep.

_Fallen angels at my feet_

_Whispered voices at my ear_

_Death before my eyes_

_Lying next to me I fear_

_She beckons me_

_Shall I give in_

_Upon my end shall I begin_

_Forsaking all I've fallen for _

_I rise to meet the end_

She faded off as she fell into a deeper, drug-induced slumber. Raoul, decided that he would surely go as mad as she was if he was forced to listen to her any longer, no matter how much he loved her, because he surely did.

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A/N

I know it's a lot of song, but it fit so well, Flogging Molly rocks! And so does miss Amy Lee, I can always write like a manic depressive person when I listen to her, so I feel I owe her something.

BTW, the title chapters, well the last two both mean black rose, the first is black as in mourning, the second is black as in blackness, or madness. Kinda clever huh? HUH? Well I thought so. He he I made a funny in Latin. Yeah, I get brownie points.

OK then…………….


	5. Ab Quirito et Ab Deploro

A/N I'm alive, I have returned form the dead. No excuses for not updating, its been soooo long I don't even expect you to read it, but if your reading this then I suppose you are………

This one gets a little angsty and a little violent, so be warned.

disclaimer, we all know I don't own POTO.

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Ab Quirito et Ab Deploro

(To Scream and to Cry)

It was unnaturally cold for May, the wind bit through Erik's long cape as he swept through the deserted alleys. The cold never reached him though; he was so overwhelmed by the ice in his heart. He knew what he had to do. He walked on steadily though his insides were like jelly. His mind was held back for fear of it being overcome with doubts again. He knew where he was going but had no idea of the way, but none of that mattered know. _You will probably freeze before you get there, _his mind told him. His thoughts slipping from his grasp scattered and rampaged though his mind. Rambling on and on like a brook that cannot decide its direction.

He was going to the De Changy Manor. He had never been before, he had wanted to many times, just to see her, one more time. He had never gotten up the strength though, to leave her again, as he knew he must. He also knew that he most likely never get to see the Vicount, that he would be killed on the spot. All the better, save him from a life without her.

He had no emotion left. He would simply ask the Vicount for his account of her last hours. That's was all he wanted, and maybe a few trinkets of hers to keep. He would not raise all hell; he had lost that power now. For the first time in many years, he felt helpless. He had sworn to never feel this way again, not when he had the power to eliminate the opposing side.

He knew he was drawing closer with ever step he took; he could begin to feel her. But what he felt was extremely disturbing. He told himself that he felt her pain because he was in pain. He scolded himself that he could taste her tears only because he was crying. He yelled at himself to drown out the sound of her screams.

_Why was his angel in pain?_ His steps quickened, but he did not notice. _She was supposed to be happy. _He dropped his pack._ Why wasn't she happy, why was her spirit still here, why did she feel alive?_ He began to run, blind to anything else, he ran until he collapsed from exhaustion.

Kneeling in the cold mud by the side of the road, he raised his eyes to the sky. The sun was beginning to rise, sprinkling the starry heavens with pink and gold hues as the world yawned and stretched. He had walked all night. Moreover, the distance he could see ivy-covered gates and a great brick monster caged in behind it. De Changy Manor. He knew what it was without knowing. She was there; he knew it at that exact moment. Her presence was overwhelming, pulling him toward that spot. It was the reason he felt nothing at her grave. It was the reason he could not accept her death. He knew now looking at the house, she was alive, and she needed him.

**

* * *

**

Raoul awoke to a red sun. The sunlight streamed in unforgiving into the room. He squinted, shaded his eyes with his hand, and rose to close the thick drapes. Once again, in the dim light he blinked a few times and shook his to shake the sleep from him. He had not slept well in too long. He was unused to being well rested.

He heard a soft pounding on the other side of the wall. He thought for a moment on what it could be until the last months events gushed back to him. He then opened the curtains, finally ready to face the new day.

He did not want to believe what he saw. He had had a feeling it would happen. He saw a small black figure swathed in a large cloak. He had hoped for a long time that he was dead, but he had a feeling that Christine would not have this problem if he were.

He padded lightly down the stairs to avoid waking the servants. He had to do this alone. He opened the door to the cold wind and stepped out to face his greatest enemy.

When they two say each other, they both stiffened. One look from Raoul's painful eyes confirmed all his worst suspicions. Erik felt rage like fire spread through his body warming him from the chill he had been exposed to for all hours of the night.

Raoul held up his hand to stop the onslaught.

"Just let me explain first, please."

This simple plea devoid of life stopped Erik in his tracks, he had been expecting defensiveness of aggressive moves, but not this, weary defeat. He was utterly dumbfounded at this new side of the fop. Maybe that was why he let him have his chance, even after all these years of hating him, when it came to Christine everything changed.

"Speak."

"I had no choice," Wrong way to start off, Erik bristled immediately. "She is not fit to live in society, I would be disowned if the public knew of her and what she's been through, don't think for a moment that I did not and still do love her, but you have not seen what she is capable of in her despair."

"Why was she despairing at all, oyu were supposed to keep her happy and loved, that is the only reason you were allowed to keep her in the first place, I trusted that you loved her if nothing else."

"I could not give her what she wanted; my love for her did not satisfy her."

"What did she want that you, a _Vicount_, could not provide?" he sneered.

"You." _What, _Erik could not believe what he had just heard. The boy must being toying with his vulnerability. She could never love him; she had shown that by choosing Raoul. "In fact, you are the one that made her like this, with all that 'singing songs in my head' garbage. You drove her to the brink! This is your fault! You destroyed my wife, you gave her to me but she was never mine, _Never_!" With that the Vicomte snapped, launching himself at the phantom.

Erik easily moved aside and let the man fall in the mud. Raoul stayed there, kneeling in the mud as Erik had done only a few moments before. Stoically, he said.

"Take me to her."

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A/N I know its short, and I kinda left you hanging but if you made it this far I thank you so much! Yeah, reviews are my inspiration!


	6. The Prison of the Mind

The wait, I know………………………….just kill me now……………………thanks to all who reviewed. Rebel X, Scully35, and Arwythe, you made me write again.

Thank you to Mimi, who reviewed all at once, I was euber excited to see them I just about danced on the ceiling. Thanks to all the other people who read and a special thanks to Prztlgrl24Charmed, who DID NOT REVIEW, you monkey-weaselless butt muncher! (Sticks tongue out. I am allowed to abuse her; she's my friend. ;)

Ok thanks, uhhm next chap, more angst, Erik and Christine reunited, not really a happy moment… as if you expected it to be….

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**Chapter Five**

The Prison of the Mind

(Hey, its in English, yeah for English!)

The light snow crunched as the two men strode briskly up the path. Silence permeated the now warming air. The melting snow seemed to create a deafening roar in their ears that yet was only barley audible over the blood saturated with thick jealousy rushing to their ears. Erik watched his rival silently sizing his up over and over again, not knowing fully what he was even looking for. He knew in is mind exactly what he was going to find in hat dark decaying old house. The house was probably neither dark nor decaying but he would rather think of it that way.

Raoul on the other hand was keeping himself from thinking entirely, if he even contemplated he imposing figure on his right he no be able to stop the flow of terrible thoughts concerning his tragic wife and that the very reason that she was so. The tragic part was the fact the reason itself walking beside his was just as tragic a figure as the one hidden

Raoul opened the large oaken door slowly but determined. He refused, even now to show more weakness than he already had. He would retain some shred of his dignity if he could. The masked man looked quickly at the striking face next to his, and suppressed the tingle of jealousy still lingering. However, he was beginning to recognize that the boy had not come out any better than he had at the end of all things. The realization formed itself during the silent walk down the marble halls.

They were lavish, each room furnished with the best that money could buy, and all light and cheerful. Lots of white, too many flowers, the smell of them permeated the entire house. Up the stairs the climbed, and down seemingly endless halls, until they were in the northwest corner of the mansion. The two men stood in front of the door for seemed like an eternity, until the sound of a muffled screech came through the thick door, indicating how loud the actual noise must have been. Erik jumped, something very unlike him.

"What in the hell are you doing to her!" he demanded.

"Calm down, please, she'll hear you. Please, just calm down for a moment."

"Let me in there, NOW!"

"No, wait, please…"

But the Vicount's pleas fell against deaf ears, Erik had heard his angel in pain there was no force on earth strong enough to stop him from going to her. He threw open the door and charged in, only to find himself in an empty room. He paused for a moment before yelling out to the petrified Vicount to show him Christine.

"ANGEL!"

The scream tore into Erik's heart she had heard him, oh god she had heard him. The screams continued but with no definable words. The shrieks began, rising quickly, and Erik could hear her tearing her voice with desperation, and a tear welled up in his eye. He blinked it away and continued to rave at Raoul.

"Show Me! Where is she?" Then he stopped, cleared his head, which was difficult for the screams in the air, and thought for a brief moment. The torture chamber, it had a secret window to see the victim. He looked around, and sure enough, there was a latch on the wall signifying a window to the other room underneath.

He paused, knowing he was not going to like what he saw. What he saw devastated him beyond measure. All went black……………………

_Hiding underneath_

_The veil of broken dreams_

_We find her weeping_

_On her once white wings_

_She will be carrying the weight of our deeds_

_And she bleeds for love_

_Forever gone_

_Drunk on shadows and lost in a lie_

_Killing ourselves a kiss at a time_

_Devils dance while angels smile_

_Drunk on shadows and lost in a lie_

_She's blinded by the fear_

_Of life and death and everything in between_

_We smile when she cries a river of tears_

_A mirror where we see nothing but a reflection of heaven too far away_

_Drunk on shadows and lost in a lie_

_Killing ourselves a kiss at a time_

_Devils dance while angels smile_

_Drunk on shadows and lost in a lie_

_So alive_

_So alive_

The words danced in his head with a haunting melody. He realized suddenly that there was a piece of time missing. He sat up quickly and looked around. The very act hurt like hell. He wondered briefly what had happened to him before the memories came flooding back to him. The memory alone made him nauseas. He put the thought out of his head, he must have taken too much opium and had an episode. That must be the explanation. Until he looked around again and came to the shocking fact that he was not in his lair or in a grubby hotel room. The events came into reality when the door opened and Raoul entered.

"Oh shit"

"Happy to see you awake, even if that is my thanks. I told you not to look."

Erik zoned out, that meant what he had seen was real. Oh god. There was blood, and scratches. She wasn't recognizable, she barley looked human. Her hair was short, and unkempt, with large mats in it, it had been chopped, jaggedly. He wondered if it was self inflicted. Her arms bore the needle marks of many injections, and many scars running up her arms in a crazy pattern. Her arms themselves were so thin he could see the bones protruding. Her eyes were black around with thick rings. Haggard beyond belief, the check bones were the only thing holding up her face. She was slumped in the corner, head lolling back, snapping up again to emit a raw scream.

It was too much. He simply put his head in his arms and cried. He wished her dead, he wished himself dead. He lost all caring for showing weakness. It was too overwhelming, and worst of all he felt pity for the other tragic figure in this, the now jaded blond beside him, able for the first to see each other.


	7. Loss

Ok, thanks a million to my reviewers. _I'llTryMyBestToBeGlindaTheGoodWitch, _it's ok I kinda blame Raoul too. ;) not in this story but in general.

The song from last time was indeed a HIM song, he might pop up more. I really like HIM. The voice and the lyrics, sooo many of the songs would fit perfectly. Too bad you can't hear them.

I'll be honest I lost my outline of the story, but I don't want to give up. Sooo, we'll see what happens, there are no guarantees of anything. Erik and Raoul might even "grieve" together. Actually no, I don't foresee that………………but you never know! I'm trying to make point!

Onto the Chapter!

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**Chapter 6**

**Loss**

They had given him a sedative to calm him. The Phantom, once held all of Paris under his spell, was lying on a bed in abject grief. As the moon rose, the phantoms that haunted his thoughts broke loose and began their nightly torture of his broken mind. They ran with new information to persecute him with. He rose from the feathery softness, deeming himself not worthy of rest, when on the other side of the house…………….

NO, he wouldn't, couldn't think about it. He could hear it, the screams, she was calling fro him still. Worse than reality the screaming was in his head, he could not drown out the horrid sound. It drove him mad.

He paced about the room, wringing his hands, feeling like a tiger trapped in a cage. He grabbed his cloak off the chair, and walked determined out of the room. He paused only momentarily, he had to get out, he had to leave this place. Obligations Be Damned.

He stayed in the shadows, flew down the corridor, down the stairs, looked out, and was in the kitchen. It was empty, and dark, but the dark did not bother him, he was always in the dark. He walked through able to see the moonlight spilling in through edge of the outlined door. HE walked outside, assaulted suddenly by the cool night air. He looked quickly and saw the stables over to the right.

The ran with a speed he hadn't used for a long time. He walked in, there was a sleeping boy in the hay piles. He scanned the horse, picked the best looking. He silently apologized to Raoul for stealing, while he took the horse out of its box. It was new for him to apologize he contemplated, when crossed with the dilemma, saddle or no saddle. _Bugger_ he grabbed the saddle of the hook, decided he could ride faster with it. Moving even more quickly now, blanket, saddle, cinch, stirrups. He noticed this saddle was odd, and then he remembered the new fad of getting these little horses from the states that were said to be able to run for miles unbothered. The saddle was western. Oh well. He got the bit in the mouth after a small struggle, but the horse let out a loud whinny and woke the groom. _Bollocks_. He slipped the reins into place just in time as the now frightened horse took off. As he grabbed the pummel and jumped in to the saddle, he found a new appreciation for the western saddle.

The hooves pounded into the soft earth with a reassuring beat. The stable boy was running into the house to alert the staff that a masked man had taken off with the masters best horse. A melody began to match the rhythm; it was soft to echo the feel of the night.

It seemed she was speaking to him, him to her. They were calling out to each other, he never quite lost the connection he had with her, to be able to touch her mind.

_This world is a cruel place  
and we're here only to lose  
so before life tears us apart let  
death bless me with you_

The sad part was that he really did wish her dead, he would much rather see her at peace than here, abandoned by all and doomed to walk in darkness.

He was out of sight quickly enough. He would return the horse to Raoul, lovely as it was. He no longer had the energy to fight that war, and from the encounters so far, neither did the Vicount.

The trees encircled him with a comforting denseness. He slowed the finally tired horse to a slow trot. He remembered a song he had written mocking the tragic boy and his pretty face. The melody no longer feeling like a satire but a deep sigh.

_No one knows what it's like_

_To be the bad man_

_To be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes_

_And no one knows_

_What it's like to be hated_

_To be fated to telling only lies_

_But my dreams they aren't as empty_

_As my conscience seems to be_

_I have hours, only lonely_

_My love is vengeance_

_That's never free_

_No one knows what its like_

_To feel these feelings_

_Like I do, and I blame you!_

_No one bites back as hard_

_On their anger_

_None of my pain and woe_

_Can show through_

_No one knows what its like_

_To be mistreated, to be defeated_

_Behind blue eyes_

_No one knows how to say_

_That they're sorry and don't worry_

_I'm not telling lies_

_No one knows what its like_

_To be the bad man, to be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes._

He would not think about the couple's sad plight any longer. He convinced himself that he could easily fall back into the Phantom persona and simply surpass his true self, so that it did not exist at all.

"_Why have you destroyed the man that I once knew? Why have you banished him, imprisoned him within your soul?"_

"_Banished him?" He whispered. "No my dear, I have not banished him. I have killed him. That man is dead. He died long ago, suffocated by blood and hate. I suggest that you forget him, for he no longer exists. I slit his throat with my resolve."_

All these things swam about in Erik's head as the horse made his way through the tress back toward the bright city, visible in the distance, its lights glowing with warm promise, empty promise.

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Ok, the first bit was Join Me in Death by HIM, and I'm sure you recognized the song as Behind Blue Eyes, either The Who version or Limp Biskit, whichever you prefer. Sorry I really like songs, they express things better than I can, and if you can hear it, it adds even more.

Ohh, and a BIG steal, the italicized words belong to Wandering Child and her AMAZING story Demons, if you haven't read it, DO SO. Its incredible, I should have asked, but the line was sooo beautiful and perfect……………I LUV U Wandering Child, WHEREVER U R!

I love reviews! ( I write more often then…………………………….


	8. Amentia

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. **Mystery Guest** I'm so glad you asked about more background story, I was about to give it to you.

Yeah I love reviews. I don't know if there we'll be any song this time, as much as I love it, my story is almost a musical here.

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Chapter Seven

Amentia

1884

The drip was incessant, ever since the damn place had been standing empty it had been decaying slowing, the entire opera house was going to end up on top of him. He opened his eyes pulling himself out of the deep thought. He was growing weak, and he knew it. There was no food nor had there been for, he couldn't even remember. With the Garnier empty, there were no twittering ballet rats to steal from. He did not eat much, he had even made _her_ believe he didn't eat at all, though she believed in a lot of things that turned out to not be true. The depression began to return, be reached down, his hand scanning the stones blindly for his opium pipe. He had gotten off the stuff for a time, as it made him cough. When he needed to sound like an angel he had not touched it, it almost killed him, which helped in part for his occasional blind rage that he called upon when being the Phantom.

He cursed loudly when he found the burner had gone out, and the beautiful porcelain was empty. He propelled himself from the armchair and stalked into another room. Two of the doors in his "house" were locked. He never wanted to see what was in them again. He grabbed a bag and reached in almost to the bottom. There was not very much brown gummy happiness left in the bag. He had gotten a hold of a great deal when he had traveled in Persia. Only those close to the Shah were privileged enough to have pure opium. He stuck the blob in the bowl and lit the burner. He began to shake slightly waiting for it to heat, blowing on the hot coal to speed the process, trying desperately to keep all thought out of his mind, until it was numb again. Finally, the blessed smoke began to come through the pipe, and with a few deep breaths, he was relaxed and carefree.

He had treid many times to relieve his stress other ways, when _she_ was there he would write music, the melodies that could come out of a withdrawal were amazing. He contemplated the fact that he needed more and all the different ways he could get more. Surely, the most interesting was going back to Persia, maybe go the few places he had not been. He could visit the states, he had not felt the urge to go there before, but the hustle of New York now sounded incredibly appealing. He could outwit the authorities, terrorize the city, and see the famed opera house there. He doubted it would be anything compared to his.

He lay back and closed his eyes, not caring that he was on the dirty stone water front. He began to slip and the water lapped at one leg gently. It almost felt like a small hand pulling him. He imagined that his heart had slowed enough to kill him. He had finally ended all the agony. He could never take his own life. He had promised long ago, in a time forgotten, fro God knows what reason, but he kept to the promise none the less. Maybe it had something to do with him already being doomed. Doomed, that was an interesting word, so black and white, no room for someone like him. Now the pretty boy, he had no trouble with the word doomed, he knew how to define it, He wasn't doomed, and the monster was. See now, wasn't that easy. The thoughts drifted off. His eyes rolled back in his head and there was peace. No wait, there was that annoying lapping of the water, he figured that he was slipping into the water more and more, because the lapping was now at his sleeve. He tried to think if his legs were in the water but he couldn't tell for sure. It was getting really annoying, it felt like something tugging incessantly at his sleeve. His back prickled uncomfortable, he assumed he entire body was going numb. He welcomed death. The words on his lips would not come. His tongue was heavy and there seemed no reason to work any harder at it. His head lolled back and forth, he wondered what made it do so when he was still. He started to see visions of an angel. It was finally over. He held his arms out to the angel to take him. He looked closer, and angel had brown hair, no, she was wearing black not white. It was a demon, sent to collect him, not an angel. He swung haphazardly at it. It made a soft grunt noise and was gone for a time. Successfully staving off the devil he began to feel sad that it was not an angel. There was the angel, hovering over him again. A beautiful face, soft eyes, soft arms encompassing him. No, it looked like _her_. The strange angel looked like her. _Angel_ he managed to whisper. It shushed him, it hummed, the voice of an angel. No, no, no, it was the devil ,it was trying to trick him. He felt helpless, he kicked out the flailed a bit, no he was too tired. It called his name, loudly. The voice, the angel voice, it was familiar. And then with a sudden jerk he recognized it. CHRISTINE. He sat up and saw a figure on the floor. The angel, the demon, the lapping, it all came clear. He had kicked her, he thought she was a demon, he had thought she was an angel. Had he said angel, or had she? His mind was still foggy.

She got up slowly. Saw him and rushed over.

Erik, are you alright? What did you do to yourself?"

He sat there dumbly as the mothered him. The anger built up in him. She had snagged the only peace he could hope for out of his hands. She had taken everything from him, and now she denied him death as well. She probably was sitting there delusional, thinking he was taking his own life, out of love for her. She shouldn't be so arrogant. To think that no one could ever get over her. _But you can't, _his mind told him, he mentally punjabbed the voice. The side effects of the opium had left him cool. He had no hot anger to expend upon her. He rose stoically, as if he had not been helpless the moment before.

"Get out"

"What?" she said, feigning ignorance as to what he had said.

"I said, Get Out, you no longer have any business being here, you chose your life, go live it."

"But Erik, how can you send me away when I love you so."

"I would apologize for being rude, but I haven't any empathy left. Just like I haven't any love left for you, my dear," The words were ice cold, calculated to cut into her as deeply as possible, he was always good at hurting people when he chose, hell whenever he was around people, even with his birth. He had always thought that the woman standing before him looked a tad like his dear mother, unable to give him love, but then who could?

"You took all the love I had with you, and you drowned it the water before you."

"I made a mistake, I love you." But the words fell on deaf ears.

"I believe I already told you that the feeling is not mutual, I believe it never was, you are still a child Chirstine, I only now look appealing because you do not have me, you believe you can control me, twist me, toy with me and then once you've had your fill, you will go back off into the light and leave me here broken. I will not DO THAT AGAIN! Now Leave before I'll do something that I can add to my regrets." The last sentence brought him back to icy indifference. He knew it would hurt her more than his fiery anger.

She fled, tears streaming down into the water, simply fled, swimming through the water, soaked through. She ducked under the partially opened gate and disappeared.

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Ok that was fun, when I wrote the part about him being high, I was all relaxed just letting the words ramble on. I started to fell a little dingy myself. It was weird.

The title, Amentia, means being out of your senses, I thought it fit. I don't know if can keep this pace though, this was a 4 in the morning fluke, maybe that why I could write the high-Erik so easily.

Yay, review, pretty please!


	9. Lies in Blood

I found my storyline! It came back to me form the dark depths of my room! I have over 1000 hits YAY! Thanks to my reviewers, and here is another chap, though I'm figuring you already knew that….

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Chapter 8

Lies in Blood

Erik wanted to kill someone, more and more he felt the strong urges of bloodlust. His own blood hummed in his ears, and his eyes darted back and forth searching out his victim. He pulled the description he had been given into his thoughts, short, bearded, small beady eyes, richly dressed, usually walks Glasson Ave. around nine, and answers to the name Du Croix. This last bit of information perturbed Erik more than a little it meant he had to yell the name before attacking. Though he could possibly use this to his advantage, he could throw his voice and confuse the unfortunate fop more than anything, Erik preferred the silent killing and quick disappearance. It had been over a month since he had been to the De Changy mansion, and since then he had terrorized the area in and around Paris, trying desperately to exorcize the demons inside his head. He found it very therapeutic to expend his frustrations upon marked men. He had the person who used to fetch all his things for him receive mail. He received orders and money, and simply made the people listed disappear. It gave him a considerable income, his skills did not come cheap. He had one rule only, no women, no children. If he was called an assassin, so be it, but a monster, never again. It pleased him greatly so stalk about from dusk till dawn, doing as he pleased, never being seen. He was truly the phantom he has portrayed for so long. It was as if he really couldn't be seen. He even ventured out a few times when it was overcast and unusually dark for daylight hours. It gave him a freedom he never thought he could really have. He was however, completely alone. He would also never again be an angel, for anyone. Once he had saved a small girl from a terrible fate with three large drunk brutes, but he disappeared before she could even thank him. He was powerful and he liked it. He was drunk on his own power, much like he had been when in the service of the Shah of Persia, only the opium had been infinitely better. While he had indeed secured some at a gargantuan cost, it was nowhere near the quality of his previous holdings.

Now he held a small home outside of Paris. He had a few horses of his own, and employed the man he had used for so long, after the death of his wife, as a manservant. It wasn't anywhere near the extravagance of the Changy manor, but it suited him fine. It was of course, decorated at richly as his lair had been, he would tolerate nothing less, not after living in destitution, when in captivity. The house was out of the way and everyone thought the poor widower lived there alone. Erik even had a music room, but it went unused, he satiated the urges by spilling blood, and killed the memories with his sweet brown, honey-like bliss. He had successfully done the impossible, discovered life after, _her_, all he had to do was let his soul go, the body could do very well without it.

It amazed him how easily he had pulled this life together in such a short time. He planned to travel, to never come back, but he simply couldn't leave, and he didn't want to think about it too deeply. Behind his house, there was a small copse of trees, and Erik loved to walk about in them, until he had discovered the house beyond it. He had almost run into a pair of small children. He watched them from a safe distance for a short time. The girl and boy were exquisite, he had blond hair that Erik bet felt softer than silk and eyes bluer than the brightest sky, the girl was even better, she was a little dancer, she often pranced around the family veranda humming, her blond curls bouncing and flying. They looked to be twins about the age of eight. Then the brother, running in from the trees, began to tease the little girl.

"Meagan, you'll never be a dancer like mother."

"I _will_ be a dancer, and I'll dance in Paris, _I'll_ be the prima ballerina, and _everyone_ will applaud me. All the lords and ladies will be vying for _my_ attention at parties and I'll be famous." At that, the brother laughed and tripped his sister, as she tried to dance on her toes. He hadn't hurt her, just annoyed her. "Raoul! Stop it!"

Erik turned away suddenly, feeling to need to retch. The happy family could so easily be the one family he never wanted to see. He turned to leave them in peace, to forget they existed, but then the mother came out of the house. He heard her call to he children, to her beautiful son to stop tormenting his sister. The voice sounded familiar, he turned knowing full well it was the last thing he should do. She was jus as exquisite as her children were. She could have been a look alike for Chri…_her_, but for the blond curls she shared with her daughter. He watched in morbid fascination, as the family merely existed. He lived vicariously through them, for a while almost as addicted to them as he was to his opium. Then he began to see that their lives were not as perfect as they seemed: the girl was a little bit out of her mind, she occasionally forgot who she was, or what she was doing, it was very tragic. Her brother felt guilty, but tried to treat her like normal when she was normal, and the mother was obsessed with growing old alone, her husband was constantly traveling, and he worried about him, she was an ex-dancer, and was worried about her looks and not being desirable any longer. Even the most perfect looking families had skeletons in the closet, happiness was never truly attainable.

Coming back to the present Erik saw a likely candidate for his man strolling unsuspectingly down the dark street. From the shadow Erik called to the man quietly next to his ear. He flipped his head around to find nothing but darkness grasped ni his fingers. His eyes widened in fear as lasso slipped around his neck from behind him. The mans body was on the ground in an instant, and Erik drank in the moment, eyes closed simply absorbing the kill, just for a moment losing himself in the absolute pain the overcame him, and reveling in it. The pain of taking life relieved him of the pain in his soul.­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Later that night Erik sat in his "office" thinking and watching the stars come into view. Without thinking he started humming, nothing in particular, but still the magical noise was flowing out of him like a deep sigh. He felt light, he was flying, the world was far behind him. He was on his feet, the melody taking form, growing stronger. He was leaning against his large window letting the sound radiate from him, as is it would explode inside him if he didn't. Then he looked down, and the beauty perished on his lips. An all too familiar figure stalked up to his door. Erik raced down the stairs to warn his manservant to not let the nuisance in, but he was too late, he stood face to face once again with the Viscount De Changy.

"Save your arguments, he must come back with me."

"Nothing could make me go back there."

"I'm afraid she is dying, help me make he go peacefully."

There was naught but silence on the other side.

_If you want to see her smile again don't show her your afraid……….._


	10. Prison of the Body

I can't believe I haven't updated in soooo long, I apologize to whomever is left reading this

I can't believe I haven't updated in soooo long, I apologize to whomever is left reading this. I don't even have a good excuse.

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Chapter 10

Carcer De Somes

Erik stood in front of the Viscount intent on finding a reason to continue arguing. He could not, however, unearth and coherent reason to stay. To say that he did not care was too bold face of a lie for even him to pull off, especially when the Viscount, more than anyone, knew just to what extent that was absolutely not true. He instead simply sighed and motioned to his manservant standing inconspicuously in the corner to fetch his coat. He would not bend to Raoul however. He insisted on his own transportation that would simply follow the Viscount back to his estate, the Phantom refused to be trapped in a vulnerable situation again.

He was almost in disbelief that he was retuning once again to the house of horror. He stared pointedly out of the dark window in his ornate carriage to take his mind off the destination. Just cresting over the trees, he could see the yellow orb of a full moon, gazing down upon the earth in a peaceful meander over the crisp night sky. The thin clouds cast a musty golden haze around God's eye, obscuring the definite lines and transforming the sphere into a distant stage light, setting the scene.

They were only a few hours away and would be at the manor long before dawn, giving the encounter an air of illicitness, arriving under the cover of darkness, Erik was unsure whether this was intentional or not. He glanced in front to the boy's carriage but could not see inside.

Erik lamented his slow loss of stealth, as he needed it less and less. Before he had been nearly omnipotent and very deadly, now he was constantly battle vulnerability and confusion.

The horse's hooves made a satisfying crunch on the gravel roads and the rhythm was extremely soothing to the weary passengers. The masked man fought the pull of the gentle lull. He began again to hum, to fight off sleep. It was another change he noticed in himself, he had never had a problem not sleeping, it was in fact quite the opposite. Now however he dreaded the nightmares he faced when he succumbed to the inevitability of sleep. Morpheus was not kind to him. He reached for more sweet release and as the smoke filled his lungs he began to see everything very clearly.

The moonlight filtered in through the sheer white materials floating over the tall majestic windows. The heavy drapes were pulled aside to let in the night air. The manor had a musty air that lingered in the darker rooms and refused to be exercised. Erik joined Raoul in the gilded room where the young Viscount had already dived into the crystal decanter. He swirled the dark liquid in the glass, making the ice tinkle. Erik sank lightly onto a dark colored chaise and regarded the other man evenly.

"So you say she is dying, why are we not with her now?" he asked scathingly.

The Viscount did not answer. He was fixed staring blankly ahead as if there was no one else present. Finally, after a long moment, he swung his head around to regard his masked visitor.

"You," he started. "You are the reason that I shall never know happiness, that she never knew it. You must drag everyone into your chasm of agony." The Viscount staggered up, swaying with the alcohol. He lunged.

Erik re-acted quickly. He darted aside letting the boy swing harmlessly. However, Raoul continued past and rang a bell near the dark doorway. Servants entered, too many for Erik to hold off in his present state. As he was being apprehended he lamented the loss of his power. Everyone had lost this game.

They dragged him along the ornate halls. He almost didn't care to where. He knew they would kill him; that was the purpose of the visit. Nothing more. He allowed himself to be taken. It wasn't like he had anything left to fight for.

_Is there anybody going to listen my story?_

_All about the girl who came to stay_

_She's the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry_

_Still you don't regret a single day._

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Next one will be longer I swear.


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